


That Day Three Nights Ago

by Siyah_Kedi



Series: We're So Screwed Up, We're Down [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur put it all on the line, and Eames screwed everything up.  There's jealousy, rage, and a gun, too many cigarettes and not enough time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drinking and Listening

Ariadne’s eyes are soft, but her expression is unyielding. “Eames,” she says. “You turned him down.” 

Eames takes a deep breath and tries to uncurl his hands from the fists they’ve formed on his thighs. He _knows_ has no right, none whatsoever to be jealous right now, because Ariadne’s right. He had his chance, and he blew it. Not only did he blow it, he shot it in the head and then hacked it into pieces and buried them under an oak tree for good measure. But even though his brain is giving the message, none of the rest of his body is getting it and he can’t control the way his fists quiver with the urge to go and tear that son-of-a-bitch off his team-mate and punch him in his face. He can’t stop the quick, high breaths that are feeding his fury, or the way his heart clenches every time a new noise filters through the paper-thin walls. 

“He’s only human, Eames, he has needs just like the rest of us.” 

Eames squeezes his eyes shut. “I really don’t need you to tell me this, Ariadne,” he says, voice tight. 

She makes a _psh_ noise, and Eames can hear the rustling of her clothes as she gets up and moves around. He still hasn’t opened his eyes yet, because he’s afraid that if he does, he may lose control and hit _her._ Especially because she’s only aggravating the current problem. It feels a bit like pouring salt into an open wound. He wonders briefly if he opened his eyes, would he see the gaping hole in his chest where his heart is being ripped from his ribcage?

But then again, he has _no right_ to feel like this because as Ariadne so unhelpfully reminded him, _he_ turned Arthur down first. “How do you know that, anyway?” He’s genuinely curious, and he takes a chance and opens his eyes. She’s pouring vodka into two glasses by the mini-bar. 

“You weren’t exactly subtle about it,” Ariadne says without looking at him. 

“What?”

She turns and fixes him with her stare. At least there’s no chance of him doing violence to anyone just yet, because he feels like he can’t even move when she’s looking at him like that. “Eames, you’ve obviously figured out how thin these walls are.” He flinches at a particularly sharp reminder of this fact from the next room. “Besides, Arthur came to me for help,” she adds, almost carelessly. “That night. He told me what his plans were, and asked if I had any suggestions.” 

Eames takes a deep breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose. As if this situation could get any worse.

Ariadne hands him a glass, and sits on the other end of the sagging couch, one leg tucked up underneath her body. “So Cobb and I were sitting in here watching television, and then I heard you yelling at him.” She looks genuinely sad, and Eames wonders if she’s about to cry. 

He remembers that night three days ago with startling clarity. 

_Candles. His heart beat a little faster, wondering why Arthur was going to the trouble. Then Arthur padded out of the kitchen, wearing a black shoulder-hugging teeshirt and a pair of jeans. It was the most ravishingly casual he’d_ ever _seen Arthur, and part of him wanted to press him up against the wall and kiss him stupid._

_Then he remembered how badly it could go when one got involved with co-workers. Especially_ necessary _co-workers, ones he enjoyed working with. One night of passion wasn’t worth losing Arthur’s good-will or worse._

_“Eames, I wanted.” Arthur swallows, looks fetchingly nervous. “I couldn’t – can’t. I need.” Eames’ mouth is dry with want. He’s never seen Arthur at a loss for words before. Arthur takes a steadying breath. “I need you to know how much I want you. I think it might be serious, and I’ve seen the way you look at me.”_

_And then panic sets in._ Serious? _What does that mean? Is Arthur in_ love _with him? Sure, because he_ might _be in love with Arthur in return, but they work together. It’s not only unprofessional, but they could tear each other apart with a few careful words. He needs to trust Arthur, and Arthur has to trust him in return. Love doesn’t factor into that equation, and his mouth engages before his brain catches up._

_“Of course you have,” Eames says. “You’re a fucking hot piece of ass. I don’t do feelings, though, sorry darling.”_

_And Arthur’s face shuts down, expression becoming frighteningly blank. “What?” His tone is flat, barely a question._

_“I don’t like repeating myself,” Eames says, and in the back of his mind he wonders if Arthur’s about to shoot him. “And I don’t fuck my co-workers. Too messy, too many problems. Besides,” carelessly, “I doubt I could get my dick in your tight ass without breaking it off. Did you pull the stick out first?”_

_And now there’s fury on Arthur’s face, he’s fairly quivering with it. “You son of a bitch,” he shouts. “You couldn’t have – you asshole, just get the fuck out of my room then!”_

_And Eames shouts back, something. He doesn’t even remember now. Something like, “Not enough room for me here with your massive ego, is there?”_

_“My ego is massive? You are the most self-centered son of a bitch I’ve ever had the displeasure of looking at!”_

_And he snipes back and they’re both practically screaming at each other, and how did this turn into an almost-brawl so fast? Arthur is whip-fast, but Eames is stronger. He’s not sure which one of them moves first, but then Arthur’s face-first into the wall, one of his hands pulled up behind his back at an angle that has to be painful, and Eames is crowding into his space, mouth by Arthur’s ear._

_“You’re not my type,” he breathes, lying with every syllable. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”_

_“Get your fucking hands off me!”_

_He let’s go and backs off, practically running from the room. He gets spectacularly drunk, and doesn’t even see Arthur for three days._

Ariadne takes a long pull of her drink. “I found Arthur sitting on the railing of his balcony, chain-smoking,” she admits. “I thought he was – I thought he was going to jump. Cobb nearly had a heart attack.” 

Eames remembers that too, even though he didn’t know he’d remembered it until she said something. He could hear them; Arthur’s room was right between Eames’ and Ariadne’s, and he’d overheard the shouting.

_“For Christ’s sake, Arthur get down from there!” A brief pause. “Get down, please, just come back inside!”_

_Then Cobb’s voice. “Arthur!_ Arthur! _Please don’t do that, please, please please!”_

_Arthur then, sounding wrecked. “Why? So I can humiliate myself some more? Don’t fucking worry about me, I’m not going anywhere.”_

From the next room, there’s a loud thumping noise that just might be the headboard hitting the wall, and Arthur _yells,_ wordless. An anonymously male voice shouts his name a second later. Eames visibly flinches, and briefly debates the merits of shooting himself in the head. 

“That’s,” Ariadne says, and Eames debates the merits of shooting _her_ in the head. “That’s actually pretty disgusting. I’m not sure what bothers me more.” 

Eames laughs humourlessly. “What, that he’s fucking some guy he picked up in a bar, or –”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ariadne warns, and he wonders if she’s debating whether or not to shoot _him._ “No, that they’re being so loud, or that he obviously found himself someone who is practically a clone of you.”

Eames can feel his heart skip a beat, and then scoffs at himself. He’d always thought that was just a turn of phrase. “What?”

“You didn’t get a look at him?”

“I haven’t even seen Arthur since I left him the other night, much less any of his – conquests.” 

From the next room, they hear Arthur again. “What are you doi- oh. Oh. _Oh,_ do that again,” starting loud but getting louder. Eames drains his glass and goes for another. 

Ariadne’s face is red. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. 

“I don’t think I can stand to stay here and listen to this again,” Eames mutters, and he’s patently miserable. 

The voices from next door rise again, catching Eames’ attention because he hears his name. Ariadne drifts over to the wall, blatantly eavesdropping.

“Do you think your Eames could have done better?” 

“How about Blake?”

The stranger laughs. “Blake wouldn’t look twice at me. What’s the story between you two?” 

“Me and Eames?”

“Yeah. You’re obviously head over heels for him, why am I here instead?” 

Arthur laughs, bitterly. “Because he’s not head over heels for me, and he made it abundantly clear.” 

“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Tonight was worth it for me, at least.” 

“Me too, Pat. Thanks for coming over.” 

“No problem.” 

Eames clenches his hands into fists again, and bolts for the door, unable to stand listening to it for another minute. He leans against Ariadne’s door, grateful that she invited him over, but unwilling to go back to his own room because one, he’ll have to walk past Arthur’s door to get there, and two, he’ll still be able to hear everything. 

Then Arthur’s door opens, and a man who looks like a recovering body-builder steps out, still buttoning his shirt. He looks surprised to see Eames there, and looks him over. There’s a hickey on his neck, his hair is tousled, and his shoes are still untied. He looks – 

Ariadne was right, if Eames was about thirty pounds heavier, he’d look like a clone of Eames. 

“You must be Eames,” the man says. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sure this is awkward, but I’ve really got to say that you seriously fucked up, man.” He can’t quite keep the smile off his face, and Eames glances down at himself, expecting to see blood pouring from his chest. His shirt is still dry, against all odds. The man – Pat, apparently – is visibly fighting his soft, pleased smile, but he can’t erase the dreamy, half-lidded expression in his eyes. “Not that _I’m_ complaining,” the man adds, and wanders down the hall and into the elevator. 

With Eames’ escape plan ruined, he just turns and faces the wall, bracing his head against his forearms. Arthur’s door swings open again.

“Patrick? I didn’t actually mean you had to… leave…” Arthur clears his throat, and Eames glances up, wishes he hadn’t. Arthur is even more ravishingly casual than the other night, shirtless – exposing the line of bruises and teeth marks down his chest, his still-swollen nipples – in a pair of striped pyjama pants and clearly nothing else. The pants are low enough to be almost indecent. His hair is sticking up on one side in a little arch, the rest loose and hanging in his face. “Um,” he says, and Eames’ temper snaps.

“Have a nice night?” he asks, nastily.

Arthur’s expression closes off again, and a furious light snaps on in his eyes. “The fuck do you care, you heartless asshole?” 

“Heartless? I’m not the one picking up in bars, am I?” 

“You expect me to believe you _care?_ You don’t. You made that _crystal clear._ ”

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Eames snaps. “I didn’t mean a goddamn word of it.” 

“You’re telling me this _now?_ Go to hell!” Arthur steps back into his room and slams the door. It audibly locks a moment later. After the exchange, Ariadne tentatively drags her door open. 

“Eames,” she says. “Not the best way to put that.”

“Not helping, Ariadne.” 

That’s when the gunshot goes off.


	2. How Much Worse Can It Get

The sound echoes in the relatively empty hotel hall. Ariadne’s face is white, eyes wide. Eames can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t even put it together. Eames pounds on Arthur’s door, both hands clenched into fists as he drums on it. Ariadne’s right beside him, both of them screaming for Arthur.

Cobb flies out of his room at a run, but none of them can hear anything from Arthur’s room. Eames backs up a step and kicks the door in. It only takes him one try, and then they’re falling over one another to get inside. Cobb checks the bathroom, Ariadne the bedroom. Eames’ attention is caught by the gun lying discarded on the couch. There’s a picture of himself on the floor, with a single bullet hole straight through the forehead. The glass of the frame is cracked and shattered around the hole, and that’s when he notices that the curtain leading to the glass door on the balcony is swinging. He pushes the door open while Ariadne and Cobb are discovering the gun and the picture. 

Arthur’s standing on the balcony, both feet balanced on the railing. There’s a glass of scotch beside him, and a pack of cigarettes.

Without turning around, he says, “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

Eames is overwhelmed with how relieved he is that Arthur’s still alive. He braces himself with hands on either side of Arthur’s body and leans his forehead against Arthur’s stiff back. “You scared the hell out of me.” 

“Get the fuck off me.” 

“No.” 

Arthur turns in his half-embrace, stepping off the railing. It brings him physically closer to Eames, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind. “Why? Was anything too subtle for you, Eames? I was going to give you the picture tomorrow, you know, because I’ve done my part. Get the fuck out of my room before I shoot you.” 

“Your gun’s on the settee. I’m not going anywhere.” Eames backs up a half-step, just enough to give Arthur some room, without taking his hands off the railing. “If I apologise, will you believe me?” 

“No.” 

“Arthur, for fuck’s sake.”

“Not with a ten-foot pole, that’s what you said,” Arthur says, fiercely. “So get the fuck away from me, and I’ll never come near you again.” 

“I lied because I’m a cowardly bastard,” Eames breathes, all thoughts of jealousy and a sedate workplace pushed from his brain by the sound of the gunshot. Belatedly, it filters into his mind that Arthur’s going to leave soon, had just said he’ll never see Eames again. “Because you and I, we work well together. We’re the best goddamn team in dreamshare and I didn’t want to fuck it up.” 

“Guess what,” Arthur says, and Eames almost thinks there are _tears_ shining in his eyes. “You fucked it up.” Arthur somehow gets a foot between them and kicks him so hard in the stomach that his own eyes are watering. He’s breathless and gasping, and can’t do more than reach for Arthur as the point man lets himself back into the hotel room. There’s a brief scuffle from inside, and then silence. Ariadne pokes her head outside a moment later.

“Arthur,” she says, sounding strained. “Cobb’s unconscious. Jesus, are you still awake?”

“I’m awake,” Eames gasps. “Can’t move for a minute, the bastard knocked the wind out of me. Can barely breathe.” He finally gets air into his lungs, and staggers to his feet. Cobb is indeed unconscious on the floor. “What happened, where’s Arthur?”

“Said he was leaving. Got his gun, grabbed his suitcase. He was heading for the door but Cobb grabbed him. He hit Cobb, and left. I think you really fucked up, Eames, and I don’t mean just with Arthur. I heard what he said. He’s not coming back this time.” She kneels beside Cobb and dabs at the blood at the corner of his mouth. 

From outside, they hear Arthur hailing a taxi, audible through the still-open door. He’s gone.


End file.
